But now that he’d lost her—Tom was starting to think there was only one girl for him.

“But I don’t understand why you have to leave,” Flora said. Her plump bottom lip was quivering, and her eyes were brimming, threatening to spill into tears at any moment.

Tom looked at her uncomfortably. It was so undignified, this display. What had he seen in her? That she was pretty?

“I told you, dearest, family business,” he said lamely. “Mind if I smoke?”

“I’d rather you didn’t. . . .” Flora’s voice trailed off. Tom was already reaching for his packet of Gauloises. “Of course if you need to. . . .”

She doesn’t have the energy to fight, he thought. Polly would have slapped the carton out of his hands, but Flora just moped. He sighed; the thought of Polly had spoiled the pleasure. He put the carton back. Anyway, a cigarette would just delay getting out of here, which was the most pressing problem.

“That’s all right,” he said, wearily. He looked at the girl: slightly heavy, in rather a sexy way, with big lips and breasts to match, dark hair, a sprinkling of freckles, and that incredible accent. He had wonderful English, but Scots and Welsh threw him; as did Yorkshire, or thick Birmingham; how could the British cram so many voices into such a small island?

“I’ll miss you terribly,” she said meekly. Tom wondered if it were true. For all her great shape and sensuous mouth, Flora McAllister was rather a dull girl, studious, with a placid temperament. She only got really excited when discussing her subject, and who the hell was interested in mathematics?

“We’re great friends, and I’m sure we’ll meet again,” Tom said, carefully. He was trying to give her a coded dismissal. After that towering row with Gemma, who also got weepy, he had no desire to repeat the scene. Sex with Flora was mechanical, relief of his urges and frustrations; it had been a penance to lie there afterwards, when her body seemed doughy instead of curvy, holding her while she slept, mouth open and snoring lightly.Yes, it was good he could get away from this.

“D’you think we’ll still be able to date? I could come to France on the ferry about once a month. You could pick me up at Calais,” Flora said hopefully.

“Darling.”Tom pressed her plump hand to his mouth gallantly. “If we’re realistic . . . it’ll be impossible. . . . You have your studies, and you mustn’t disrupt them. . . .”

Flora looked concerned; he knew she was after a first, maybe more. A fellowship of All Souls had been mentioned.

“And I’ll be too busy. Nothing but the utmost concern for my family could keep me from you,” he lied. “Perhaps when we’ve both achieved our goals, we can come together again, and if our hearts are free. . . .”